


The Lion in Winter

by Friendly_Voices



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Romance, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friendly_Voices/pseuds/Friendly_Voices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunt for Voldemort’s last horcrux leads Hermione Granger to the past. Her only allies are teenage versions of McGonagall and Moody and much younger and irritable Dumbledore. What secrets are hidden in these shadowed Hogwarts halls?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_31 st August 2009_

 

Watching the unnaturally still man was disconcerting. He hardly resembled a human being, and the influence of the most potent potions and spells known to the wizardkind made him look quite dead.

Lord Voldemort seemed to be subdued at last.

The thought was a ridiculous one. There was no way they could keep him like that forever. His followers were trying day and night to find him. It was only a matter of time until they would succeed and then a new reign of terror would start. This cease of fire, this tiny little respite from the open warfare, would be soon over. Even now they could feel Voldemort’s power stirring, and the spells needed to be re-cast every day.

Hermione Granger was one of three persons in the Order able to cast such potent curses, and she was tired. She, Harry and Dumbledore took turns, and with only the three of them, the strain on their magical reserves was enormous. Voldemort was actively fighting the magic, and without the potions Snape spelled directly into his bloodstream, the Order would be hard-pressed to keep the Dark Lord unconscious.

_Clever son-of-a-bitch_ , she mused as she watched Voldemort’s face. When she had been a girl, she had been terrified of him, but the fear had gradually left her. With every Cruciatus thrown her way, with every life she herself took, she became less afraid of this madman, of dying in fight against him. Her only fear now was that they would be unable to stop him for good.

He had one more, Voldemort had hidden his last horcrux somewhere and not a soul knew what it was and where it was. He had been too careful, he had left no traces, no people to interrogate. The diary, the diadem, the cup, the locket, the bloody snake and the tiny piece of Voldemort in Harry’s scar had been all gone… but one horcrux still remained.

Dumbledore suspected it was Gaunt family ring and Hermione tended to agree most days, but they could not be certain, not without the ring in their possession; the flimsy piece of jewelry had disappeared from the face of Earth sometime during the summer between Riddle’s graduation and his job for Borkin and Burkes.

They could not risk killing the body – Voldemort would just create another shell for his soul. Sighing, Hermione looked at the monster one more time before she stood and left the chamber.

The Unspeakables had played with their runes and divination stones and the sands of time, and surprisingly enough, they had come up with a plan which Minister Shacklebolt seemed to like. It was insane and it was dangerous, extremely dangerous, and it just might work.

They had contacted her and Harry with their idea; they needed someone with a magical level high above the standard and a direct experience with time travels which left the two of them as the only suitable candidates for the mission.

Hermione’s magical core had expanded in the years after the graduation. She had gained power and experience and was slowly reaching her physical and magical prime. Witches usually reached it in their thirties, wizards in their forties – which ruled Harry out. He was much more powerful than her, but his core was still developing and throwing him through time could stunt the process. No one felt comfortable with the possibility of robbing the Chosen One of his power in this chaotic world where Dark Lords sprung up like mushrooms every few decades.

Dumbledore had been silently left out. Hermione knew that the old Headmaster would be the first one to disagree with the plan; he disliked how the Ministry carelessly risked the young brave witches and wizards in the war and this could prove to be a suicide mission.

She carefully renewed the protections on the chamber before she activated her portkey. She never liked this kind of travel and she landed gracelessly at the steps of 12 Grimmauld Place.

Stumbling, she fell back and was saved from hitting the ground by a steadying hand at the small of her back.

“Ah, Miss Granger! Just the witch I was looking for!” Professor Dumbledore chuckled and merrily twinkled down at her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Professor, thank you.” Hermione nodded.  

“Shall we, then?” He motioned towards the stairs and gallantly opened the door for her wandlessly, keeping a step behind her and looking carefully around the neighborhood for a second. It was easy to forget

The house was silent but brightly lit up. After Harry had become the owner of it, he had done his best to obliterate anything and everything related to the Blacks and their legacy. He had reorganized the whole house, even knocked down a few walls, and burnt away the portrait of Mrs. Black.

“You mentioned that you wanted to talk to me, Professor.” Hermione said as they made their way into the kitchen. There was no one present, and Hermione suspected that Harry was fast asleep upstairs. He had a demanding job after all. Moving towards the kitchen cabinets, she asked, “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you, I am needed elsewhere. I only hoped I would catch you at home before your big day tomorrow, Miss Granger. I know what you are up to.”

Hermione stopped her movements and stared at the cup in her hands for a moment before she put it down, turned and looked at the Headmaster. Dumbledore was standing near the table in his bright lemon green robes, his beard tied up with an orange elastic band. He was smiling softly and watched her knowingly.

“Sir?”

“I remember you. There is no point in denying it, my dear.” He chuckled at the slight blush in her cheeks. How embarrassing. Dumbledore knew, of course; he had been a teacher at Hogwarts, so he had met her in the past. Keeping something like this from a wizard like him was impossible.

He placed an envelope on the table.

“I took the liberty of writing a certain letter. Contact my younger self and give it to him. I daresay that you would find this cover story much better than the one Kingsley provided. It would be much safer for you to appear to have familial bonds in those times.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Professor.”

“Then don’t say anything. I found out that it makes one look quite wise.” Dumbledore chuckled again and took a step towards her. His eyes were twinkling annoyingly when he offered her his hand. Hermione reluctantly shook it and the Headmaster nodded once.

“And please, don’t judge me too harshly, Miss Granger. I was a troubled man back then. Good luck and I see you tomorrow.” With those parting words the Headmaster left the kitchen and quietly closed the door.

Hermione remained for a few more moments, drinking her tea and worrying about the past, her future. She could not imagine Dumbledore as a troubled man – in the nineteen years she had known him he had always been calm and composed, always in good spirits despite the sorrow and pain surrounding them. Then again, it was hard to link Harry, the self-assured and confident auror to the raging teenager he had been fifteen years ago.

She left her cup in the sink and looked around the kitchen; she would not see her home or her friends for some time. With her heart heavy as lead, Hermione went to bed and prayed for dreamless night and safe journey


	2. Chapter 2

_31 st August 1944_

Hermione had visited Godric’s Hollow several times with Harry and therefore she knew where Dumbledore’s house stood. She was rather reluctant to approach the man – it would be certainly strange to meet him – but she didn’t feel comfortable with Shacklebolt’s cover story any longer.

It had seemed ok – before Dumbledore had pointed out the obvious. She would be better accepted as a part of an old family. Hermione was supposed to secure a place of a young healer in training stationed at Hogwarts, but wizards in the forties were clinging to the blood status nonsense and with no pureblood family to back her up, a girl like her couldn’t have afforded to pay for a healer training, she wouldn’t have been accepted. It was going be hard enough to gain access to the school, let alone getting a job without any connections in a time when WWII raged all around Europe.

Just the walk through the village was enough to remind her that this was not her time and that she was utterly alone in this fight. An hour in this time and she longed for something to ground her, something at least a little familiar. The thought quickened her steps and she hurried in the direction of the Headmaster’s home.

She remembered that Dumbledore’s dwelling was a small, well-kept house with an herb garden and a little stone wall surrounding the property. The door and shutters were vividly blue and the roof was cheerfully red.

The house she found in its place was unkept, the stone wall crumbling, the dull brown color flaking away. In the yard, only shrubs and tall weed grew.

Dumbledore’s sorrowful words about being a troubled man came unbidden to her mind and she tried to suppress any doubts. She trusted the Headmaster with her life and his younger self was the only person she trusted enough to help her. She just hoped that the professor was still at home and not in school. She could not afford to draw any attention to herself.

Hermione took a deep breath and opened the gate. The iron creaked loudly and before she knew what was happening, she was suspended in the air and an angry looking wizard stood in the doorway.

Hermione’s mouth opened in shock. It was Dumbledore, of course, but even in her wildest dreams she wouldn’t have imagined that the man looked like this at one point in his life. Dumbledore was tall, she knew that, but his younger self appeared to be muscular and strong. He had short hair and no beard, only reddish stubble on his cheeks, his nose was shockingly straight and his eyes were not twinkling; they were burning with blue fire as he had his wand pointed at her.

The most unsettling thing about this Dumbledore was his power, though. Hermione had always felt the calm, serene aura of Dumbledore’s magic around him – it had had soothing, reassuring effect on everyone who knew the old man. This magic wildly swirling around them was buzzing with anger, it was hot and it was uncomfortable.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he gazed at her utterly shocked and then he dropped his hand and gently lowered her to the ground. He inched cautiously forward, as if embarrassed.

“Sorry, Miss. How can help you?” His voice, at least, was the same. He tried to smile when he added softly, “I wasn’t expecting… that is… I… I hope you are not injured.”

Momentarily speechless – he didn’t wear his half-moon spectacles –, Hermione slowly reached into her pocket and offered him the envelope from his older self. He didn’t take it; instead he smiled grimly and motioned for her to open it.

“If you would please.” Something in the tone of his voice and in the glint in his eyes was extremely irritating. It was very obvious that this man wasn’t the Dumbledore she knew and it made it both harder and easier to interact with him; easier because Hermione had been always in awe of the Headmaster’s wisdom and power, and harder because she usually hexed people who irritated her.

“Well, I certainly haven’t cursed it!” She huffed but opened it. “See?”

“Yes, well, my apologies again.” He appeared to be utterly unapologetic, though. In that moment, he reminded Hermione of the Weasley twins. “What is inside, Miss…?”

“Granger, and how am I to know? It’s for you and I don’t go around reading someone else’s post.”

Dumbledore chuckled – that was a familiar and welcome sound – and Hermione felt her irritation subside slightly when he took the letter and bowed a little in a gentlemanly gesture.

“Of course. May I invite you inside, or were you just substituting for an owl?”

The annoyance was back full force and she glowered at that man and his twinkling blue eyes and his merriment, which only made him smile more as he ushered her inside.

“In you go then, my dear owlet.”

He led her through the darkened hall to the backdoor and out to the garden. There was a massive oak bench and roughly made wooden table covered in papers and notes. A tea pot and a single cup were resting on a small tray on the very edge of the table and Dumbledore swiftly and wandlessly conjured another cup, filling it for her.

“Please, take a seat. I would hate to have you think badly of my manners, Miss Owlet.”

“Naturally, Mr. Dumbledore. Although, the tricky levitation spell on your gate might be a bit misleading.”

“A bit,” agreed the man mildly and sat down, opening the letter. His eyes then turned to her, so blue and piercing. “Oh my, the very first line forbids me to ask you any questions! One comes to mind immediately, though. It’s clearly my handwriting, but I didn’t write the letter…”

“Please, just read it, sir.” Hermione pleaded softly and watched his reaction; Dumbledore’s face closed off, his eyes narrowed and he glanced at her a few times, but he continued to read. A faint pinkish hue appeared on his cheeks and then he shook his head and let out an irritated laugh.

“Well, my older self has a wicked sense of humor, and is also a little sadistic, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore looked at her with an odd expression. “You are my niece, my dear, and you are going to join the seventh years in their final year of studies. Apparently, you are to be sorted into Slytherin and as your loving uncle, I am to provide you with guidance and protection. How does it sound?”

“Terribly!” Hermione put her cup down, agitated. “That can’t be right!”

“It is ridiculous, what was I thinking when I wrote this letter?” Dumbledore muttered and shook his head again, reaching for his beard – which was not there. He fisted his hand and cleared his throat, watching her for a moment. There was something unfathomable in his eyes.

“I won’t ask what brings you here, or how you managed to arrive. I have only one question, please indulge me. When were you born, Miss Granger?” His voice was soft and his face gentle. It was the same gentleness the older Dumbledore had often projected when he had been speaking to her, and it felt like finding home in this strange world.

“In 1979.”

“Oh my!” He cringed, stood up quickly and paced back and forth for a few minutes, frowning. Hermione marveled at how open the man was, how easy it was to read him. Then he sat back down and took a deep breath. His face was sad and his eyes lost their light. This sadness hit her like a lightening because the emotion was very familiar. It had always been present in the Headmaster’s eyes, just lurking behind those twinkles, but no one usually took notice; certainly not Hermione.

Seeing this restless, raw version of the Headmaster was a sobering experience for her. For the first time ever it occurred to Hermione that the Dumbledore she knew wasn’t a happy man, and hadn’t been happy for a long time.

“This time must be very confusing for you. I’m afraid that I am beginning to see the wisdom of my older self when he sent you to me. However, would you be comfortable with the supposed connection to me?”

Hermione blinked twice at his question and forgot to ask him what could possibly be good about her pretending to be seventeen again. Dumbledore patiently waited for the answer.

“Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well, the Dumbledore name isn’t worth much these days, Miss Granger.” He nodded grimly to himself. “I hope you have a thick skin. Actually, I am surprised that you even went for help to me. I’ll help you gladly, of course, it’s just… well. You must trust me in the future, I suppose.”

Hermione was more than shocked at his admission and it took her a minute before she found her voice to utter, “With my life, sir.”

For a moment, Dumbledore watched her. He just sat there and watched her and then he nodded. “I should call you Hermione, then, and you should call me Albus. We would need to de-age you a little, and then go shopping for school supplies. Any idea what courses would you like to retake?”

“Is it truly wise, Albus?” Hermione carefully tested his name and it sounded so very wrong. She tried again, “Uncle Albus?”

Dumbledore cringed again and shuddered while she winced. No one would believe them.

“Please, don’t. We are a traditional family, I see. Sir will do, Miss Dumbledore.” He said half amused, addressing her smoothly and without any stumble with his name.

“Yes, sir, I feel more comfortable calling you that, too.” Hermione smiled a little and took a small sip. Dumbledore chuckled and nodded, reaching for his beard for the second time – only to realize that he didn’t have any.

“I have a question, sir.” Hermione said after she observed his movement.

“And what is that?”

“What happened to your beard?”

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore blushed like a schoolboy and ran his fingers over his jaw. “There was… an accident in my laboratory… And it is not an adequate source of amusement for you, Miss Granger!”

“Certainly not, sir!”

Dumbledore scowled and then he huffed and then he smiled. “Well, it was very colorful explosion, quite spectacular, let me assure you. I saw pink dots for three hours afterwards. Drink your tea and think about what you will need, dear Miss Owlet. I am going to talk with the Headmaster.”

When he disappeared inside of his shabby house, Hermione let out one last giggle and settled down to shamelessly read through his notes. Lesson plans, the poor man.

She would like to think that this Dumbledore was more approachable and she had a feeling that she would get on well with him, they might even end up as friends. Hermione smiled and corrected a date in his plan for September. She would like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, well, sorry if you were expecting a spectacular journey through time... It was left out on purpose, though ;)


	3. Chapter 3

_ 1st September 1944 _

Hermione liked Dumbledore’s house; it had character which reflected its owner perfectly. The halls were shadowy and dusty, but the living room was full of books and magical gadgets that sparkled and beeped, warm and cozy and cramped. It reminded her of his future office at Hogwarts greatly. Her guestroom was in Gryffindor colors and the kitchen strongly resembled Molly’s kitchen at the Burrow. All in all, Dumbledore’s house from the inside was a very homey place.

However, there was one thing Hermione disliked about the year 1944 immensely; the cold. Dumbledore told her that it was the coldest year he could remember, and then he spent half an hour putting warming charms on her school uniforms promptly ignoring her loud vocal protests.

Thinking about it, Dumbledore had been very enthusiastic about helping her, and had even managed to be polite and amusing during their trip to Diagon alley the previous afternoon. There had been looks, though, and offensive mutterings at his address from random strangers which had confused the witch.

Hermione had to confess that the expression Dumbledore had adopted when he had heard them had been murderous and had chilled her to the bone. No wonder that Voldemort had feared him for so long, it was quite easy to be afraid of the man; she had been able to feel his magic swirling around them violently and in that moment, she had felt fear – pure, paralyzing fear. Younger Dumbledore was a quick-tempered man and Hermione had begun to wonder why he was so disliked by general public.

She gave up after remembering that face and just watched him sort through her cloaks and jumpers. “Sir, you don’t have to do that. I could manage on my own.”

“I have no doubts about that, Miss Dumbledore, but indulge an old man.” He smiled and continued with his work. “You will discover that this age differs from yours. Women, especially beautiful women, are treated as the treasures they are.”

She laughed lightly and shook her head while Dumbledore grinned broadly. He was far from old, a wizard still in his prime, and without that beard of his, it was easier to see his smiles. There was a large variety of them; mischievous, sad, wary, downright amused…

“I am not joking, Missy!” He said sternly, his eyes twinkling. After a moment of hesitation, he continued soberly. “Hogwarts is an elitist school and the boys attending it were brought up with very traditional beliefs. I am perfectly aware of your ability cast a warming charm on your clothes, and that you can open the door for yourself, or that you won’t fall down the stairs. They all know it, too, but it doesn’t change the fact that we will cast it for you, we will open the door for you, and you will always, always precede us on the staircases.”

He closed the trunk and looked at her. “Don’t look so shocked, my dear! Are you meaning to tell me that such common courtesy completely disappeared in your time?”

“It’s hard to find, Professor.” Hermione shrugged and checked the time, mulling over his words. Courtesy hadn’t disappeared, of course, but she couldn’t remember the last time someone opened the door for her like that. Then she laughed again – it was not true, the last person who had opened the door for her in her time had been Dumbledore himself. 

“We have to go, sir.” She sighed softly clearly unhappy about the situation.

“Yes, of course.” Dumbledore shrunk her trunk and put it in his pocket, and then he summoned their cloaks and offered her his hand. “May I?”

Hermione inwardly grinned at his formality and took a step closer to him, taking his hand. As a seventh year, she wasn’t supposed to Apparate on her own yet – she pretended to be barely seventeen and therefore she didn’t have her license yet. He winked, and they were on their way.

A side-long with Dumbledore was surprisingly comfortable, and he held her upright after she stumbled on the platform 93/4. He didn’t even snigger as Harry usually did when she lost her footing – which she barely did, but it happened on occasion when she was preoccupied by this or that.

“Thank you, Professor!” She stepped away quickly, shuddering in the cold morning air. Dumbledore nodded briefly at her and looked around, keeping track of those who noticed them; it was quite a number of nosy people.

“Here,” Dumbledore wrapped her cloak around her and smoothed it down her shoulders, still discreetly glancing around them. “We’ll talk later. Now, my dear, go and meet your new schoolmates.”

With that, Dumbledore pressed her trunk into her palm and with another wink, disappeared without a sound. Hermione blinked a few times and shook her head – trust Dumbledore to master a silent Apparition. Then she noticed that two students in Gryffindor robes were watching from the train with wide eyes.

After a second, she realized that she knew them and with an uncertain smile she waved. The boy, tall and blond and shockingly handsome, opened the window and smiled, “Hello there! I haven’t seen you before. A new student?”

“Was that professor Dumbledore?” The girl, proud and keen and very Scottish, nodded towards the place where Dumbledore had stood. “Do you know him? And for Merlin’s sake, what happened to his beard and hair?”

“Obviously, Minnie, he just blew up his lab again! Are you related or something? Cause Dumbledore is our Head of House.” The boy grinned. “Oh, why don’t you sit with us? I’m Alastor Moody and this snobby spitfire is Minerva McGonagall. Come on, hop on!”

Hermione glanced at McGonagall who raised an eyebrow at her as if asking whether or not there was a problem, then grinned wickedly and smacked Moody over his head. “Who is a snobby spitfire, you mongrel?”

Hermione suppressed the insane urge to laugh out loud. It hadn’t occurred to her, but she was far from alone. Her old teachers were right in front of her and if she was going to be Dumbledore’s friend, there was no reason why she shouldn’t be theirs, too.

“I’m Hermione Dumbledore.” She slipped into the seat next to McGonagall and shook hands with them. “Albus is my uncle.”

“Uh, I didn’t know that he had any siblings, let alone a niece hidden somewhere.”

“Well.” Hermione smiled shyly. “Uncle is a private man. It’s a family trait…” 

They spent the train ride chatting and Hermione cautiously steered the conversation to Moody’s and McGonagall’s families or school subjects. Alastor was unbelievably nosy while Minerva was respectful if only a little reserved, and she had to reprimand her friend a few times.

“Alastor! Leave the poor girl be or else! Can’t you see that she is uncomfortable?”

McGonagall was unsurprisingly the Head Girl so Moody grumbled a little, but dropped the subject. It was obvious by the way they interacted with each other that they were the best of friends, even though their social standing differed greatly as far as Hermione could tell. Minerva was the only daughter of the House of McGonagall, an old Scottish pureblood family, not extremely wealthy but proud and respectable. Alastor came from a long line of Aurors, and most of them had died poor and miserable.

When they were nearing Hogwarts, it was Alastor who asked her the dreaded question, “So, any idea what House you’ll be sorted into?”

“I would say Gryffindor, of course,” McGonagall smiled. “According to my father, no Dumbledore was sorted elsewhere in the last four hundred years.”

“Eh, I was sorted yesterday, actually.” Hermione fell silent for a moment. “The hat said Slytherin.”

“Oh.” They both watched her with wide eyes but recovered quickly. “That’s… unexpected.”

“Uncle wasn’t pleased.” Hermione turned from them and looked out of the window. “Is it really that bad? Being a Slytherin?”

“I’d say!” Alastor clapped her shoulder. “They are real gits. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“Well, Slytherins are… rather peculiar, one could say.”

“What’s Minerva trying to say is that they are mostly dark. It’s in their blood. Only Slytherins get sorted into Slytherin, for generations, and they all cling to those nonsense beliefs about blood purity and all.”

“There is nothing wrong in keeping the traditions intact, Alastor.” McGonagall said in a brittle tone.

“Traditions, yes. Prejudices, no.” He looked at her challengingly.

Hermione tuned them out completely when they started bickering about McGonagall’s family views; even predominantly light supporters as the McGonagalls or Longbottoms clung to beliefs of blood purity and traditions, and Moody, a son of a half-blood, had to disagree.

The fight ended with McGonagall storming out to ‘check the prefects’ and Moody gazing angrily out of the window. He glanced at Hermione after a minute.

“Huh, I’m sorry you had to witness that, it really wasn’t about you being a Slytherin or anything. Minnie is stubborn and a McGonagall to boot. I asked her to marry me, but she is betrothed to some scrawny Rawenclaw boy since childhood, and she plans to marry him to honor her father’s wishes.” Alastor then looked at her kindly and shrugged his shoulder. “That’s life, I suppose. Anyway, would you like to play chess with me?”

Hermione found herself nodding. She didn’t know what else to say and she certainly didn’t wish to think about two lonely and weary professors she knew in her own time. Neither of them had ever married as far as she knew.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine, but do forgive me, I'm a non-native speaker... Oh, and I am always very interested in your comments so please feel free to leave some ;)


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